


Welcome.

by Phiso



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Brotherhood, Brothers, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Sibling Love, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 08:10:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/648425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phiso/pseuds/Phiso
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The time has come for Thorin to pass from this world and enter the Hall of Mandos, as so many have done before him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Welcome.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote the first half listening to [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vtp-p7qFI2I) and the second listening to [this](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8sYyTpD9RJQ). I have been told they enhance the experience, and so give you the links should you choose to listen.

It didn't hurt. He wished it would.

Thorin knew he didn't have much time. He had stubbornly held on long enough to speak to Bilbo, the one person he was still able to apologize to, and now there was naught left to do, few precious seconds to waste. The king had said his farewell the best he could, and now he could only wait.

The world had been an explosion of pain when the first spear had struck its mark in his chest, but by the third everything had blurred at the edges. The haze had not been enough, however, to block out the sounds of angry yells, of clashing metal and of wet, guttural cries. His eyes had stayed focused long enough to see his nephews rush forward in his defense, throwing up their shields, but by the time he had watched them fall they had been reduced to nothing but mere shadows. Whether this was due to the wounds or his fear, however, he could not say.

Mercifully, before the enemy could mutilate the line of Durin further, they had been distracted by another wave of soldiers, leaving the three of them alone on the battlefield, surrounded by moaning bodies and the smell of iron thick in the air. The boys - _his_ boys - had held each other as their lives slipped away, his ears catching their comforting murmurs and last bouts of choked laughter, sounding more like children resisting the urge to fall asleep than like warriors who had given their lives for their mountain and their king. And then Thorin heard them quiet into a silence deeper than he had ever heard, and he knew.

His throat had tightened, his eyes had burned; he had wanted to scream, to kill every monster that had caused them harm, to bring them close to his shaking chest and beg for their forgiveness. He had meant to teach them how to be leaders, kings; he had not meant to end them.

But they were long gone now.

And for the last time - though certainly not the first - he envied them, for their bond remained unsevered, even in death. He had never been so lucky. If he had had a choice in the way he had died, he would have preferred to die like them, alongside his brother, rather than being forced to watch the too-small body in his arms fade away with a shiver beneath the East Gate of Khazad-dûm. He could not even hope to see his sister's face one last time, gazing at him with their father's eyes and their mother's smile. Instead, he was leaving this world in a tent in Dale, surrounded by horror and leaving a poor weeping hobbit in his wake.

"If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world," he had said. If only he had learned that lesson sooner - but he hadn't, and now the ones who had sung the most couldn't anymore. He had fought for a peak of silver and gold, killed hundreds in his search for a single jewel, and yet what it had cost him no longer equated to what it was worth.

His vision was fading fast and suddenly his chest refused to draw in air, and all at once he knew it was time. Thorin II Oakenshield, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, King Under the Mountain, let out one last breath, and allowed the darkness to overtake him.

When he opened his eyes again, he was in a grey hall filled with endless rows of pillars, their spaces occupied by shadows of figures whispering prayers and meditations through the air. There seemed to be no ceiling, but in the distance he could see enormous tapestries hanging from the walls, depicting scenes of war and celebration both. One tapestry in particular seemed to be in the process of being weaved by invisible hands; on it, he could see the familiar outline of the Lonely Mountain and the carnage of a great battle.

There was only one place he could be, then. There was no fear in his heart, but rather a deep disappointment, for all he could see in the picture of the mountain were his failures. Surely, he would not be rewarded for a life such as his.

And then he heard it behind him.

"Uncle."

Thorin almost didn't want to look, afraid of what he might see, but at last he did, holding his breath as he hoped against hope.

There before him was a pair of dwarves, their skin and clothes clean, their bodies wonderfully whole. His dark Kíli was beaming like the sun, brimming with the energy he had always had in life; golden Fíli stood at his side, the youth of his years mingling with the wisdom that he would have gained with age, showing all who looked upon him the great king he could have been. When Thorin noticed that their hands were intertwined, he could have wept with joy.

"Fíli," he cried, "Kíli." And without another word he took them into his arms, yearning to say the words that were begging to escape him but finding he couldn't. The embrace would have been good enough for the moment, but they pulled away before he was ready, and Thorin gazed at them, confused.

"We have a surprise for you, uncle," said Kíli with dancing eyes, clearly beside himself with excitement. Thorin looked to Fíli out of habit, expecting the eldest to translate, but Fíli simply gave him an encouraging nod and said, "Turn around."

There was a wild thrill in his heart at those words and he did as he was told, too afraid to pray for more than what he had already received. What he saw filled his heart so completely he thought he might die again.

"Thorin," said Frerin with a warm smile.

His face was exactly as Thorin remembered it and yet a thousand times more beautiful. Frerin looked at once forty-three and two hundred forty-three, every inch of him both child and grown, encompassing everything he ever was and ever could have been. Thorin gazed at him hungrily, taking in every inch of him as though he might never see him again, before abruptly stepping forward and bringing his little brother into his arms.

"Frerin," Thorin rasped, unable to believe it. "Is it really you?"

"I've missed you, big brother," sighed Frerin, and their arms tightened.

"Forgive me, Frerin," Thorin finally managed, pressing his face against the shoulder of the baby brother he had been forced to bury far, far too young. He was surprised to see they were the same height here, and his heart ached. "I should have protected you."

"There is nothing to forgive," Frerin murmured. "You were young yourself. It was a miracle you got out alive, and I'm glad you did. Look at the heroes you have helped our little sister raise," he continued, pulling back and rotating Thorin so that he could face his nephews, who ran bashful hands through their hair and grinned in embarrassment and pleasure.

"I'm sorry." Thorin's words wavered as he spoke to his young sister-sons, his voice thick with sorrow and shame. He had raised them on tales of honor, treasure, and legacy, hoping to instill in them the same angry fire that he had borne all those years. They had not absorbed his bitterness, but never ceased to view him with unending devotion, and it pained his heart to know that he had led them not to the glory he had promised but to the same fate as his own brother, a fate he had sworn to protect them from. His eyes shined with tears, and he reached out to touch them, only to draw his hand back, disgusted with himself. "I failed you. Your father. Your mother." Thorin swallowed hard, hating himself for leaving her so utterly alone, and dropped his gaze, unable to face them any longer. "I don't deserve your company. Not here."

Fíli and Kíli's faces grew solemn, and they stepped forward together, each of them putting a strong hand on one of their uncle's shoulders.

"You were more than just our uncle, Thorin," said Fíli, his face more serious than Thorin had ever seen it. "You were our father, our leader, our teacher."

"And our King," Kíli continued, and not for the first time Thorin saw his own face in his youngest nephew, what his youth could have been rather than how it had turned out. "And we would lay down our lives for you a hundred thousand times more. We would not abandon you for all the gold in Middle-Earth, not after all you have done for us."

Thorin could not speak after those words, struggling to reconcile the enormous guilt he carried with the love and admiration he saw in his nephews’ eyes. At long last, Frerin pulled him in and touched their foreheads together, and suddenly Thorin felt fifty-three years old again, recalling the last night they had spent together before the battle that had torn them apart.

"I am proud of you, big brother," Frerin whispered, and Thorin let out a shuddering breath, shaking his head no. "No, listen to me." Frerin placed a firm, brotherly hand on the back of Thorin's head, stilling him. "You lived through so much pain, suffered so much on behalf of our family and our people, and despite this, your strength gave our folk a home."

"I was weak."

"You are but a dwarf," Frerin laughed, a sweet and pure sound Thorin had nearly forgotten, faded to a mere echo in his mind over the past century. He could have listened to that sound forever. "No one is perfect, Thorin, but believe me when I say even Durin himself would not have entrusted his people to anyone else in such trying times."

Thorin's eyes raised, wide in surprise. "Durin?"

"You have done our line well. Mother and father are proud of you," Frerin said, clasping his hand on the back of Thorin's neck, "as is grandfather. They are waiting for you now, as are the rest of our forefathers."

"Our father also has much to say to you," said Kíli quietly. "He wishes to thank you, for without you..."

"Without you, we would not have been able to move on," Fíli finished. "You saved our family, Thorin."

And gently, with the kind of trust that lives only between brothers, Frerin took Thorin's hand and led him through the Halls of Mandos, his sister-sons following his every step.

**Author's Note:**

> A great big heartfelt thank you to Apple and Brandi for the extremely vital betas.
> 
> Also note his final words to Bilbo belong to Tolkien and are quoted directly from The Hobbit. I do not claim them as my own.


End file.
